


Teach Your Parents Well (If They Told You, You Would Cry)

by grabmotte



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Porthos-centric, Set between Season 2 and 3, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 12:57:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11231472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/pseuds/grabmotte
Summary: The musketeers are going to join the war against Spain.But before Porthos can go to war, he has to pay one more visit to a special place, andremember.Porthos has many questions pertaining to the musketeers, the war, his family's past, and, most of all, his mother, and this may be his last chance to ask them.The "Porthos and Treville finally have a long conversation about Porthos' mother and his place in the musketeers"-fic that you have all been waiting for.





	Teach Your Parents Well (If They Told You, You Would Cry)

"The White Horse?" Treville asks, squinting at the sign hanging above the door.

"White Hound." Porthos can't help but smile as he corrects the Minister. Most misinterpretations of the animal on the sign aren't as optimistic. In the past, Porthos has heard patrons refer to what is supposed to be a white dog, rampant, mainly as _sick rat, shitting_. Yet, in spite of the painter's lack of talent, the sign looks clean, and the paint has recently been touched up, making the white dog-horse-rat shine despite the dust of the road that could long have turned it yellow. It is the sign of an innkeeper who takes pride in his possession, and Porthos would not return to the tavern every year if that weren't so.

He leads Treville inside, noting that the place looks decently busy, enough for the two of them not to draw too much unwanted attention. A tavern in which everyone sulks by himself is not a place for strangers, but here most of the patrons are drinking together, and near the entrance a group of men around Porthos' age are having a game of cards. Only few men are sitting alone. 

Some of the patrons look up as the newcomers enter, and their eyes linger just a moment longer than Porthos is used to. He doesn't come to this quartier often enough to be remembered by anyone apart from maybe the innkeeper and some of the people who knew him from the time before he became a soldier, but he guesses that some of the patrons' interest is due to the resemblance his companion bears to the king's new Minister for War. After all, Paris loves her heroes, and the former Captain of the Musketeers is well known around the city. 

The curious looks cease quickly once Porthos starts to return them. His presence, and the unmistakable bulge of the swords under their cloaks should keep anyone from intruding. It is nostalgia that makes Porthos come back to this place year after year, but despite his sentimentality Porthos is no fool with his own life and even less with that of Treville. There were too many fools in Paris already, and of a rather nefarious kind.

Gripping the hilt of his sword, Porthos directs his companion to a table in the corner.

"Charming," Treville remarks as he takes in the surroundings with an interested, alert look. He looks satisfied with Porthos' choice, and the musketeer's heart lifts before he orders a bottle of wine to hide his embarrassment. _Old habits die hard_ , he thinks. 

He has never been one for dissembling, but the waitress has a big smile for him and for now that's enough for Porthos' own smile to return.

"Not the best wine in Paris," – they are by far in the wrong neighbourhood for that – "but you acquire a taste for it."

"How long did it take you?" Treville asks, sitting back.

Porthos can't help his lopsided grin. "About four years." Certainly not the hardest years of his life, but turbulent ones.

Porthos has come to this quartier to have a drink and let his thoughts run free at least once every year without failing since he left the Court of Miracles, usually on the same day when he can make it. He has grown fond of the place, but as a man who frequently walks palace halls and drinks spirits sponsored by nobles he can't deny that the White Hound is a modest establishment. The neighbourhood surrounding the Court of Miracles can hardly be called prosperous. The people who can afford it don't live next to the slum. The ones who can't may very soon find themselves swallowed by it.

It takes only a single crisis to make a quartier full of the city's working poor disappear into the swamp of the Court. 

An epidemic. 

A bad harvest.

War with Spain.

The last of these has become a reality since Vargas' confession. Spain made an attempt on the King's life, and there was only one response France could make to save face in the eyes of the rest of Europe. 

Porthos looks around the tavern and thinks that when he returns here next year, there will be less… of everything.

_When…_

In Porthos' profession more so than in most, there is a chance for many _next times_ to turn into a _last time_ very quickly. Yet, Porthos has always managed to come back here once a year, sometimes with a bit of delay –such as the time when he spent most of the year lying entrenched in front of La Rochelle – but he always came back. It is a comforting thought on a night like this. A night that carries the potentialities for so many last times.

"Why this place?" Treville asks, disrupting Porthos' thoughts.

Porthos shrugs. Treville knows where he grew up. He has likely drawn his drawn his own conclusions by now. "Reminds me where I come from."

"But this isn't the Court of Miracles."

"Food's not as decent there," Porthos says. He knows that Treville is asking after a specific memory that he associates with the inn, but Porthos hasn't decided yet what to tell him. "The Court isn't a place you can just visit." And certainly not with the King's Minister for War in tow. The fact that Porthos was content there as a child for a very brief time doesn't erase the reasons why he left.

_A brotherhood with honour._

In the Court of Miracles blind men regain their sight and the invalid can walk again. A beautiful name for an ugly place that the self-proclaimed finer parts of society have long abandoned to its own devices. It is a home for those who can find no work but begging and thieving. Once a man enters it, he will find it almost impossible to leave, as he will find that the air of the Court clings to him. It is the air of poverty, that even on the occasions that it inspires charity in a Christian soul also means ostracism in a city that strives to be the cultural centre of Europe.

It used to seem to Porthos a miracle of its own that he managed to leave the Court and never look back. It no longer does seem a miracle now, and that is part of the tragedy.

"I didn't leave there on the best of terms when I was a kid. Flea begged me not to go." He stares into the flame of the thick candle sitting on the table between them. Flea wasn't crying the time they parted. "I don't come here for long conversations. Usually."

"Just for the memories?"

Porthos nods and they both remain silent for a while. Fortunately, a waitress places a bottle and two cups in front of them at that moment. Porthos wants to offer to pour, but Treville is faster.

"You ride out tomorrow," he says, filling Porthos' cup generously.

"Yeah," Porthos says. His bags are packed, waiting for him back in the garrison. "Against Spain. A first for me." So far all Porthos battles has ever fought have been uprisings – of protestant enclaves, of minor nobles. Even the siege of La Rochelle, although nominally supported by England, was, despite the gruesomeness that went with long sieges, a relatively contained affair. "This is a proper war."

Decades of experience on that matter are evident in Treville's smile. "The Spanish don't fight any different than the protestants. If anything, the protestants fight harder." Then, the smile fades. "War with Spain. Finally. I always thought I would be fighting with you when that day came."

Porthos hesitates, suddenly tongue-tied. A tangle of emotions sits in his stomach, heavy like a ball of leaden strings. Unable to decide which thread to unravel first, he takes another drink. The wine tastes just as Porthos remembers it - not too sweet, but it sticks to the tongue and doesn't flush away the ball in his stomach.

"You couldn't refuse the King," Porthos says, feeling obliged to speak. His words sound like a platitude because they are. "I'd rather have you on the council than another Rochefort." This, at least, is the truth. It will be a long time before Porthos will be able to speak that name without contempt. It detracts from the other feeling.

Treville is Minister for War now, no longer his Captain.

The quartier outside the Court of Miracles isn't the only thing upset by war. Back at the garrison Athos – Captain Athos – Is buried in his maps, supply contracts and receipts. D'Artagnan is with his wife, _as he should be_. Aramis is… 

"I'm amazed the palace could spare you tonight."

Treville grins into his cup. "The council likes to keep me busy, but there is only so much I can do. The hard work will fall on you boys."

The inseparables are going to ride out in the morning. Or what was left them.

Porthos shakes his head.

The last time he'd been to the Court, he'd told Charon that he'd found a new brotherhood. Back then, Porthos would not have doubted that, should war break out, he would face it at the side of his three closest friends, not as the subordinate of one of them and missing the other. He would also not have doubted that Treville would be there with them, leading them through the fray. 

But now that the day has arrived and the musketeers are about to go to war and it is nothing like Porthos had imagined it. 

"Things haven't turned out as I imagined them," Treville says. "I never thought myself suited for a career in politics."

Porthos is quiet, because the only polite things he can say to that are more empty phrases. He never liked those. He takes another look at Treville. The minister has abandoned his blue coat for tonight. Under his cloak he's wearing one of the well-worn brown leather doublets he had favoured as a captain. Unlike the slashed velvet doublets and noblemen wear when they go drinking, this is armour, but he won't put it to the test tomorrow. Treville's place is with the musketeers, not at the palace where he'll be watching from afar while Athos sits in his command tent, devising battle plans for an entire regiment, d'Artagnan misses his wife, and Aramis…

Porthos doesn't know what his part is going to be in all of this, the only one of them standing still.

"Should be coming with us, he says." The words will change nothing, but they want out. "It will be different with Athos in charge."

"I would have preferred to transfer the captaincy not right before the war, but the King didn't leave me with a choice," Treville replies. If he had not accepted the position, the king might have found another Rochefort to replace him. Porthos knows this, but still the threads in his stomach pull tighter. 

"Athos has led you before," Treville continues. "On smaller missions, but he is ready. He will lead you well."

"I don't doubt Athos," Porthos says, but he is reminded of the way he felt when Athos rode out of the garrison without a word about where was going the day he had been made captain. Shortly before, Aramis had taken his leave, not even waiting to stick around for d'Artagnan's wedding. Unlike Aramis, Athos had come back.

"Instead of carrying them out with you?"

"Yeah." Judging by the way French and Spanish have been fighting in the East for almost a decade now, Porthos guesses that it will be a long war, a hard war, and all the drearier for the loneliness.

Oblivious to the knot in Porthos' stomach, Treville goes on. "Perhaps it was time for change. I have been Captain for so long… This past year," he stops to catch Porthos' eyes and Porthos is disturbed to find he has a hunch that he knows what Treville is going to say.

"I haven't been the captain you deserve."

"You were." Porthos grips his cup harder, doubting he could disguise the heat in his voice even if he tried. Why waste time unravelling the knot thread by thread if you can set the whole thing ablaze instead? "You were our Captain even when you weren't the King's. You stuck by the Queen despite everything; saved her, saved Aramis. You were still the Captain. If you weren't—" He pauses, shakes his head when the words still won't come, for once wishing he had Aramis' famed silver tongue.

He doesn't want to think about Aramis.

"I let you down, Porthos." 

The knot breaks. The words spill out on their own. Like guts from a stomach wound, ugly, rotten.

"You did all those things, but you still wouldn't tell me the truth about Belgard."

Treville attempts to meet his gaze, but he fails. His eyes flickering down to his cup.

Perhaps coming here was a bad idea. Neither he nor Treville are men of words.

But no. There are things that need saying, even if it takes them twice as long to find the words to make sense of them, as it would take someone like Aramis.

"That's how I knew it was bad," Porthos continues, quieter. "You wouldn't even attempt to explain."

"I didn't know how."

Porthos scowls at the excuse. "Should have tried anyway. You're the Captain. You never do anything without a reason."  
Treville picks up his drink, but he can't disguise the way his mouth twists as though he tasted something sour even before his lips touch the cup.

"Even for what I did to you?"

"Didn't say they were good reasons."

"You had every right to be angry." Treville sits quietly for a moment. He contemplates his cup as Porthos sits back and drinks, waiting. There is power in waiting. It is a tactic Treville has often used – after the shouting ¬¬¬¬¬– on soldiers with a heavy conscience and Porthos is eager to see how he likes having it done to him. Over the years, Porthos has learned much from his Captain.

"De Foix wanted me to tell you. When he gave you that sum – that was his way to do what he could for you with what little time he had left." Treville pauses as he remembers the dead general. Porthos doesn't want to guess what he is thinking, doesn't want to care. But he remembers the moment Treville embraced the friend the musketeers had brought back to him. He remembers his face the moment he noticed the blood.

Porthos has never been one for dissembling. His heart is too big, Aramis used to say.

"I believe it was also his way to ensure I couldn't keep the truth from you forever," Treville continues. "He didn't include an explanation with his gift to you, because he knew that you had someone else to explain things to you." 

"But you didn't. You were shot and still you wouldn't tell me." He doesn't have use for the memory, not now. But he can't shake off the image of Treville on the operating table, shaking, fighting for every breath as he cried out in pain. Porthos remembers the shock that ran through his body at every cry. He remembers feeling so helpless as he watched Lemay work, and it's awful because it douses the fire behind his words until there is nothing left of Porthos' anger but the ashes of disappointment. "You said you'd tell me everything; promised. You told me his name and where he lived. Nothing else. Who he was, what he did. I had to ask _him_."

Treville exhales audibly, but this time, when he lifts his head, he meets Porthos' eyes without flinching.

"I was selfish. I wanted you to dismiss Belgard without my influence." A humourless smile splayed across his face. "As though you seeing him for the villain would absolve me."

Treville sighs again, leaning back in his seat. But this time he doesn't look away. "I didn't give you anything to resist him. I am sorry I refused to see that at the time."

Porthos nods to himself. Acknowledging Treville's apology verbally would mean wasting words on hollow phrases again. The words – the ones that need saying – flow on their own now.

"I wanted to believe him everything." He says. "I wanted to believe he'd loved her" Porthos falls silent as he reaches for childhood memories that are too faded to hold on to. He tries to sift through them, one by one, looking for the right ones, but they won't come to him now. He suspects they will come to him later that night, as he lies in bed, waiting to go to war.

"She wasn't happy with him, was she?"

For once Treville's face is open as he answers. "I believe she was, once. Belgard could be very charming when he wanted to be."

"Makes it worse though, doesn't it?" Porthos recalls how he felt at the moment when Treville had corroborated Belgard's accounts of his crime, a confession on his tongue where Porthos expected a denial. He had wanted for Treville to finally tell him the one truth that had to exist that made sense.

He remembers ripping off his musketeer's pauldron and shoving it into Treville's arms.

There had been no other truth but the one of his Captain's betrayal. 

But when Porthos looks at Treville and sees the man he has always known. His captain. Every battle, every mission – again and again Porthos has put his life in his captain's hands, to do with as Treville saw fit, trusting that he wouldn't waste it. With a pang, Porthos realizes that he will do so again, tomorrow, and the day after that. Every day until the war is over or one of them is dead. Athos will draw up the plans for the battles that Treville picks.

If Treville weren't the man he is, Porthos' heart wouldn't have bled. If Treville were a lesser man, it wouldn't be bleeding now.

"I asked you about de Foix so many times. You could have told me anything, but you told me to forget it." Porthos thinks of Belgard's lies and how readily he believed them for no other reason than that Treville had never done anything but feed Porthos' suspicions that there was something to know. "Didn't even bother to make something up."

Treville's eyes snap up to meet his. He looks hurt in a way that he hadn't been even when Porthos had ripped off his shoulder guard in front of him. Porthos doesn't care. He wants answers.

"I—" Treville's mouth hangs open, ready to defend himself, but he catches himself. Porthos can see the shame rise behind his eyes as the words form. "I didn't want to tell you of what I'd done, but I didn't want to lie about it either."

"Why not? The men I want to trust have a habit of twisting my past to soothe their conscience."

"I didn't."

"You made me a musketeer."

"Because you deserved it. If—"

"But you knew who I was!" Porthos roars and he can feel his heart pound. You never interrupt the Captain. Unless you're ready for the consequences.

_Old habits die hard._

But Treville continues to speak softly, calmly. "Not for the longest time. I couldn't be sure."

"Assumed, then. You thought I might be Belgard's son and you never told me."

Again, Treville opens his mouth as if to say something, but thinks better of it.

Porthos shakes his head, looking away. His gaze sweeps the room, takes in the men drinking, the men playing card games on the eve of a war that will lead their homes to ruin, but it is not for them that his eyes blur.

"I come here every year for my birthday. I don't know if it's my real birthday. I don't know when that is, because I don't know when I was born."

If his mother ever told him he wasn't old enough to remember. But he thinks he remembers birthday. He remembers they had fancier food on some special days. He couldn't even have guessed at the sacrifices she had to make to make her son feel like a king on these days. She always took care not to let him see her cry when she could help it.

Porthos doesn't look up when Treville answers. It's hard enough just to breathe.

"If I knew when you were born, I would tell you, but Belgard never introduced you."

"You were his friend." How could you think someone was your friend, lead an innocent woman to her doom on his behalf, when he wouldn't even show you his baby?

"By the time you must have been born, he was no longer lodging with us. As soon as his older brother died, his father began to consider Belgard as his heir and found him wanting. Belgard was already a member of the King's guard at the time, and the Marquis bought him apartments more suited to his station." Treville furrowed his brow, deep in thought. "I believe the Marquis eventually sent your mother to him as a servant to ensure that Belgard wouldn't embarrass the family through his living situation. I don't know when their affair began, or when you were born. I saw your mother, briefly, sometimes when we picked him up, but never you."

"That's how much he cared about my mother and their marriage, then. Didn't even tell anyone."

"He couldn't risk telling anyone he was married in case he eventually decided to marry someone else."

"Some high-born lady." A lady who would never have known a day of hardship in her life. A lady whose hands had never been so raw from scrubbing and cleaning that they bled when they were dry. A lady who had never worked herself so hard that she could barely keep her eyes open as she put her son to bed and still made barely enough money for them to get by. 

"Worked out for him." There is no comfort in knowing that Belgard eventually ended up disgraced, living in a ghostly, barren mansion with a daughter and a son-in-law who hated him. It would never weigh up against all that his abandoned wife had suffered.

"She died alone," Porthos said, fighting against every word as his they strained his voice to the point of breaking. "The woman who had given me everything. I was the only one there for her." 

He can't stop his vision from blurring as he looks up at Treville and he is thankful for it. It looks to him as though Treville is blinking hard, keeping his own tears in check and Porthos doesn't want to see it. Treville had it in his hands to ensure neither of them would cry. But he chose scum Belgard over the best woman in the world, and now they were alive while she was dead. Died in a slum that the world would love to forget, without even a proper grave to her memory, because space in the Court of Miracles was precious, and outside of the court the only consecrated ground that ever awaited the court's inhabitants was a mass grave.

Porthos closes his eyes, wondering where the confidence went with which he had led Treville to this place. He invited the Minister here for a reason.

He had already decided to believe Treville when he had shot away Belgard's gun at the mansion. If Porthos weren't willing to hear Treville out they wouldn't be sitting here now. But there is more Porthos needs to hear. So much more.

"My Mother used to tell me stories." Tears fall as he speaks, but the words must out. "Fairy tales about princes and witches." He wants to smile at the happy memories, but they have somehow become bitter in this place. Or in this company.

"In all her stories, there would always be a boy who saved the day. I wanted to be that hero for her. Even after she died, it got me out of the court, into the infantry." He pauses, weighing the words in his mouth until they feel adequate.

"You're my Captain. When you made me a musketeer, that was the proudest day of my life." He remembers the first time he felt the weight of that leather pauldron on his shoulder. It had been more comfortable than anything else he had ever worn, because it meant he had finally made it. He had become someone he wanted to be. A musketeer. The pauldron was a physical sign of the brotherhood he had so craved.

 _At the time_ , Porthos had been convinced his mother would have been proud of him.

"Until Belgard told me to ask you why I was a musketeer."

"Belgard lied to you."

Porthos shakes his head. He knows that. Oh, he knows that. But Belgard is no longer an issue. "You built this world where I was just another orphan you could train. You gave me a room in the garrison and a fancy name, but you had nothing to do with how I grew up." At least there are no more tears when Porthos looks up again. "And you didn't want to ruin that."

Treville looks guilty. Again, there is more to know.

"Why am I a musketeer?"

Treville sits back slightly, clearly having excepted this question. "I didn't know who you were when I recruited you. It's true, I began to suspect when I learned of the circumstance of your upbringing, but is has nothing to do with why you earned this position. You left the court of miracles on your own. You made your way into the infantry and to fame all on your own. You were brought to my attention and I trained you like a would any other talented recruit. That is all I did. You became a fine— a great musketeer, because you fought for it. All your doing." 

Porthos swallows. It is hard to resist Treville's imploring look when he wants so much to believe. Despite the history between them, there are still some things Porthos has to be sure of.

"You don't look like him."

"Good," Porthos says.

"If I had known who you were when we first met – would I have attempted to reach out to you? The King relied on me heavily in the early days of his reign. If I didn't believe you were cut out to be a musketeer I could have arranged for him to grant you any office, any titles I wished. I could have left you money like de Foix did and you would never have known who your benefactor was. But a commission in the musketeers? No. Giving the uniform to someone not fit to wear it would have put every single man in the company at risk. I would have burdened my conscience, not eased it."

This at least, Porthos can believe easily. The musketeers weren’t the first regiment he joined, but never before had Porthos known with such certainty that Captain Treville wasn't one to waste his men's lives without a cause.

"I gave you a commission because you had earned it." There is no hint of hesitation as Treville continues, but there's a fever in his eyes. It is so easy to believe him when he talks like that. So easy to understand why men follow him when the stoic mask drops to be replaced by that fire.

"Your commander gave you a glowing recommendation. For your bravery. For your skill in battle, for your eye for tactics, and, above all, for your loyalty to your fellow soldiers. Since you became a musketeer, you proved him right in every single regard. You achieved a lot, and you did so on your own merit."

Porthos has always been too easily swayed by praise. After Treville's confession he had thought that would change, but to his dismay he can feel his chest swell at these words. What he wouldn't have given to have heard them a year ago. 

_Old habits._

Treville isn't finished yet, but the magic is starting to wear off. This isn't all Porthos needs to hear.

"Belgard threw you away – his son – and you still did all of that on your own. If Belgard could do that, I wasn't going to lead you to him. He didn't deserve to know you. No. I watched you grow into your own as a King's musketeer and I kept my suspicions to myself. I wanted to forget them."

"There's more." Porthos has to tear his eyes away. "You didn't forget. You didn't forget my mother." 

This much has to be true. This one thing.

Back at Porthos' quarters, among the baggage, there's a shelf of books that he had collected over the years. He had started to teach himself before he had even joined the infantry, but the first book he had read – the first proper book bound in leather – had been Treville's. Porthos can still recall how excited he had been to receive that first book. He had eventually returned it to its owner after he had finished it, but it had been the start of Porthos' own collection, and there had been many books after it, some of which he had been encouraged to keep. 

Resting against this shelf is Treville's old silver-hilted rapier – beautiful but far from an ornamental weapon. Porthos has seen the nicks in its polished blade, and every dulled spot of the sheath, where the leather is beginning to show signs of wear. It is a gift from one warrior to another, and Porthos needs to know why he accepted the sword and kept the books. He needs to know why the Earth didn't swallow him whole when he took these 30 pieces of silver into his home.

Treville couldn't have willed himself to forget what he had done and still be a man, let alone the man Porthos thought he had known so well until so recently. The Captain who would stand up for his man to the King. The Captain who could even outsmart the Cardinal when there was an innocent life on the line. The Captain who hadn't judged Porthos when he had learned that the man from the Court of Miracles had been trying to teach himself to read, but who supported him every step of the way.

But then, Porthos image of his Captain was so incongruous with the kind of man who would take a woman and her child away from her home and tell her to disappear with threats of death.

Treville licks his lips. He stays silent for a long moment in which Porthos can feel his heart beat, the sound of its pounding drowning out the noise from the other tables. 

This night carries the potentialities for so many last times.

Finally, Treville speaks. "I didn't want to remember what I'd done. That I'd chosen him over you."

Porthos sits back, flattened by the fact that Treville answered at all. But the tension between them is still there. Treville has given a simple answer. What kind of monster _would_ want to remember?

It isn't what Porthos needs to know.

"Why did you do it?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes." If there's one thing in the whole world Porthos is sure of is that he _needs_ to know.

But that is not what Treville asked.

"None of my reasons – nothing what I can tell you will justify what happened. Why hear what can't satisfy you? It won't make what happened hurt any less."

"It doesn't matter. I wanna know the truth. Just the truth." Porthos owes it to his mother to push for the truth. How else could they ever be free? How else could he trust again? "All the times I asked you about de Foix, you could have made something up. Tried to make me drop it with lies. But you didn't." Taking a deep breath, Porthos catches Treville's gaze and holds it. Holds it until his eyes sting. 

"Tell me."

Treville sighs. Porthos can practically see him shrink as Treville folds his hands on the table, briefly pausing to think. 

"I kept something from you that belongs to you. I never wanted you to know it, but I regret it now." Treville pauses and, again, Porthos waits, vowing not to relent until the truth is out. There are no guns pointed at anyone this time, but even so there is no backing out. 

"I knew – beneath my shame, I knew that de Foix was right, that you deserved to know the truth."

Porthos swallows. "Belgard told you he was going to kill my mother and me and you helped him get rid of us." The ball of lead is back and this time it sits in his throat. "You were his friends."

"We were brothers in arms," Treville begins. He is looking at the ceiling as he speaks, remembering. "When I came to Paris as a young man Belgard was the first person who seemed to give a damn about me. He, de Foix and I, we trained together, we lodged together, and we went to war together. Belgard saved my life on more occasions than I can count, but he had a cavalier streak." Pausing, Treville returns his gaze to the flame in front of him, his expression unreadable.

"He talked about women in a manner that–" He stops; sighs. "I chose to ignore it, because of who Belgard was to me. Too many soldiers talked like that and I was convinced I knew the good man behind the tall words. I should have realised someone would get hurt someday, but he was a brilliant liar. He could always allay my fear, and I wanted to believe in my friend." Treville's voice trails off and Porthos leaves him a moment to collect himself. He doesn't want to admit he knows what that feels like. He likes to think of himself as a man who doesn't shy back from addressing his friends when he believes they are making a mistake. But after the past year, after the silence that had torn at his friends, each occupied with his own problems, he's not so sure. 

And then, sometimes, he thinks of the Daupin's governess with the sad eyes, and doesn't know what he is feeling anymore. _Aramis left_ , he thinks. He's no Belgard. He never did anything with the intention to hurt, he had been worried sick for his son, and he had stopped.

And above all, Porthos is certain that if he had known how it would end, he would never have allowed Aramis to debase himself by intentionally hurting a woman like that.

But the unquiet whisper in his mind remained.

"I don't know how his father heard of him and Marie-Cessette," Treville continued, oblivious to Porthos' dark thoughts. "But Belgard was about to receive his commission as an officer in the King's guard and it's likely a jealous man mentioned to the Marquis that there was a child."

Porthos can feel his blood boil before Treville even finishes. That was all it had taken Belgard to abandon his family. Fresh tears spring to Porthos' eyes as he remembers doing what he had to survive in the Court of Miracles after his mother's death – stealing, extortion. He remembers how he and Flea and Charon – all orphans like him – would daydream about a noble relative swooping into the Court to save them. How they would dream of a family of blood. Someone to belong to. Someone who took care of them because they were family and ask nothing back. 

Did his bastard father even consider other options before he decided the woman he claimed to have married out of love and their child had to disappear?

And Treville had supported him.

 _Treville_.

And yet Porthos had allowed him back into his life.

"I knew what we did was wrong even as we did it." As Treville hangs his head Porthos is struck for the first time how tired he looks. He would have put it down to Treville still recovering from his gunshot wound, but he knows it's more than that and Porthos' sympathy is limited. 

"I didn't know what else to do. I didn't want him to kill you, but I was unable to see Belgard for who he was. I wanted my friend back – the one who'd taken me under his wing when I was a stranger. The one who made me feel like I belonged in Paris. The one who taught me how to fire my musket under pressure and saved my life countless times. I knew that giving in to him wasn't the way to do it, but I couldn't admit it. I couldn't admit that the man who demanded this of me and the man who I thought was my friend were no longer the same person."

"My mother had done nothing wrong." Porthos' expression is steely as he answers. "She died, abandoned." He swallows. "By you."

It is difficult to ignore the despair in Treville's eyes as, but Porthos resists. All he can think of is his mother's face. How she smiled for him, even when feeding him meant she had to go hungry. Even by the time she was dying, she had remained strong for him. Laughing for him. Taking the infusions for him that passed as medicine in the court.

Porthos has to be strong for her. 

"I knew it was a mistake," Treville continued. "But I wasn't thinking straight. Years ago the three of us had sworn an oath and sealed it with blood. I was about to be sent home until I could ride again after I had been wounded leading a charge to break a siege. De Foix was to temporarily join the garrison of the fortress we had supported, and Belgard returned to Paris. It was a bloody battle. Many of our troop left their lives on that battlefield. We were spooked, uncertain of ever seeing each other again, and we swore an oath."

 _A blood oath._ Treville mentioned it before but it is still hard to believe that anyone should be so silly. But Porthos' own contempt of the idea is nothing to the contempt in Treville's voice. It is almost enough to make Porthos shudder.

"We swore an oath that we would come to each other's aid no matter the circumstances. That we would do whatever was needed without question, and without asking for anything in return. The night we took you to the Court of Miracles Belgard reminded us of that oath."

"Should've stopped him." Porthos barely hears his own words. It is mind-numbing to think that this is what his mother died for. And it is frightening to find that the men you look up to are just that: men. Unthinking, selfish men who put loyalty to their own over all reason. 

Porthos would never allow a friend to do something so wrong, no matter what he stood to lose.

It makes Porthos want to swear his own oath. That he will never be stupid or frightened enough to fail his comrades like that. But he is riding out to go to war tomorrow, and he doesn't need to take another oath. D'Artagnan fighting at his side will be enough. 

"We tried to talk to him," Treville continues, "but he didn't listen. He was furious. He saw his inheritance, his name and his promotion vanish before his eyes, and he was determined to do something about it. Not once did I doubt that he would do to you and your mother what he threatened. We had to act at once, and we did, panicked, like animals, and like a coward I told myself it was the only thing I could do because I was beholden to that oath. We didn't think about helping your mother, only of appeasing Belgard."

Porthos hangs his head. Can't look at Treville. Can't lift his eyes. It's simply too much. Too much. 

Treville tried to warn him: _Why hear what can't satisfy you?_

But Porthos has to hear it, all of it. He remembers his mother's face smiling at him, lined beyond her years. 

Porthos suspects he is older now than she ever was, and he has to _know._

"I knew it was a mistake before we even arrived at the Court. We should have taken you to the garrison and told the Captain about Belgard, told the King. At the time it would have felt like a betrayal of the man I thought he was." Treville sighs again, clutching his cup. "I protected Belgard when he wasn't the one who needed protection."

"No," Porthos says tonelessly. "He wasn't." He drains the cup in front of him and feels like ordering another bottle.

"I told you I tried to look for you the next day. I thought I could find work for her with a former landlady of mine. Of course, I was fooling myself. No lady wants the neighbours to talk about the new servant who nurses an infant but can't name the father. She would have had to hide you, give you up. It was equally naïve of me thinking I could find her in the Court, but I couldn't not at least try, having brought her to that place. You know how the Court of Miracles responds to the King's authority." Treville's lips twist into a horrible grin. "My Captain made me clean out stables for a week when he saw me return to the garrison that day. He thought I'd been picking fights. I believe he wasn't wrong – in a manner of speaking."

Again, Porthos can't muster much sympathy. In fact, imagining the young soldier with a bruised face is oddly satisfying. And yet he cannot stop thinking that this sounds like something Aramis would have done. Doing something, _anything_ , just for the sake of doing something. Because for some people even courting harm is better than to sit and do nothing. 

They are some of the best people. 

Again, Porthos tries not to think of the Dauphin's governess. Aramis, while he never mentioned the young woman by name, didn't stay to explain whether there was any truth to Rochefort's accusations. 

He orders that second bottle and they both take a break to drink, neither of them looking at the other.

"And afterwards?" Porthos eventually asks. "Belgard proud of you?"

"There was no afterwards," Treville says. The twisted grin has long disappeared and his eyes cloud over with old memories. "Belgard received his promotion and de Foix and I hardly saw him again. I was still somewhat in King Henri's favour, but didn't spend enough time at court to fit in. The Queen never took a liking to me. I wasn't decorated or learned enough to make up for my low birth, and so the King was easily swayed to send me on campaign whenever there was an opportunity."

Porthos nods. He knows Treville's reputation well. It's what had initially made him want to join the musketeers so badly. Being appointed to one of the royal household regiments would have been a high honour in any case, but the fact that Treville had been chosen as the commander of the newly founded regiment of musketeers had made it clear to everyone that the musketeers wouldn't just wear pretty hats and parade around the capital for show.

Born as the son of a merchant, a commoner who had bought his noble title when the old King had been in desperate need of money to win his crown, Treville had to earn his place at court where the old nobility still looked down upon upstarts from the less exalted ranks of society. He came to the King's attention after he successfully led a charge against overwhelming forces as a common soldier in a light cavalry regiment – one of the King's own, but still a far cry from the elite force the musketeers had become a decade later.

To Porthos, a grunt in the infantry, serving under Treville's leadership had represented fame through merit. A career marked by action, not grovelling. 

Back then, Porthos' comrades would have given everything to be like the famous Captain. Most of the recruits Porthos had seen joining the musketeers in his time had shared that sentiment, and Porthos bet that even now that Treville had left the blue cloak behind the new recruits would continue to do so.

Once, Porthos had been just like them.

He remembers the first time he saw Treville. The Captain had been looking for recruits to join his brand new regiments. Porthos remembers entering the tent of his Commander and finding Treville at Lieutenant Fournier's desk. His face had already been marred by scars then. When Treville stood up he hadn't been quite as tall as Porthos had imagined. But it was impossible to deny his presence. An aura of authority that made even his glamorous reputation pale before the real man.

Porthos had thought he knew a thing or two about fighting before he joined the musketeers. Treville showed him better. He was a strict teacher, but that had only made every word of praise out of his mouth that much more precious.

That day, when Treville had asked Porthos to join – looking so serious, so stoic; it would take a week before Porthos saw Treville smile for the first time – Porthos had would have danced on the spot if he hadn't been numb with shock. He would continue to feel like he had been blessed throughout his years of service as he grew to learn and his bonds to his fellow musketeers grew tighter.

Now, he can't help but wonder how many recruits would still join if they knew what Treville had done. How many people care about a simple woman when faced with such glory?

But what Porthos absolutely cannot remember from that day, no matter how he tries, is a hint of recognition in Treville's face. A widening of the eyes, or a simple nod…

"You didn't speak to Belgard again?" 

Treville shook his head. "In truth, I asked the King to send me away to fight. I did not want to stay in Paris and face my failure every time I came across Belgard. Then, the King was murdered. The trial came. Belgard was banished and de Foix offered his services to foreign kingdoms at war. I stayed in Paris to serve the new King and when King Louis took the throne he rewarded me by tasking me to raise the musketeers. I never saw either of my old friends again. Until this year."

Porthos stops. The words he was going to say are stuck in his throat. He doesn't know what he had expected. It had been clear that Belgard had not been on speaking terms with Treville for a long while, but de Foix?

"De Foix wasn't the same after what we did. Neither of us was. I don't think we really spoke again afterwards even before he left. _Really_ spoke with each other."

Porthos nods to himself. Those three young fools had broken themselves. They had destroyed themselves after destroying an innocent woman.

And yet, Porthos can't help feeling affected by the incredible timing of de Foix' demise. To see your friend again after twenty years only to lose him…

It strikes Porthos that never before or since had he seen Treville embrace anyone like he did de Foix. Or smile at anyone like that. In fact, for all the time that he has known him, the Captain had always cut a very lonely figure. Until the King had made him a Minister he had been at the garrison day and night – whether he was their Captain or not – available whenever his men needed him.

Porthos never questioned it. It had seemed natural, a thing that happened to commanders. But now, given cause to think about it for the first time, Porthos realises that that isn't true. His old commander had been married. All of the King's generals are married, the heads of large aristocratic families.

But not Treville.

Until now, Porthos has never wondered why.

He isn't sure how the answer makes him feel.

Because of these men, his mother died in a court of thieves that she hated.

"I would not want to be that man again, Porthos." Treville pauses, looking up. He is weary. "I'm sorry that I failed you in that intent."

Porthos swallows, but he can't dislodge whatever it is that is stuck in his throat. Treville looks old to him. Older even than he had looked lying in his sickbed recovering from an assassin's pistol ball lodged in his shoulder.

The Minister isn't fifty yet but you wouldn't be able to tell for sure from the deep lines around his mouth, the greying beard and the many scars pulling at his skin that even the half-light couldn't hide.

For the first time since Treville stopped being their Captain, Porthos thinks that maybe the King wasn't acting cruelly when he called Treville to his side. 

His _Old Fox._

Treville had been a soldier for three decades. He fought well enough in Pinon, against Levesque's men, and at the palace earlier this month. But frontline combat – a distinct feeling creeps into Porthos' head that if Treville were to accompany his musketeers to the front he would not return. And that thought frightens Porthos, as much as seeing Treville gasping for air on a table in the garrison's mess frightened him. 

Treville hadn't merely been shot once in his life. Had not just once had his bones broken, not been stabbed only once in his long career. But it strikes Porthos that the injuries had become more frequent. Last year it had been a broken collarbone courtesy of the Cardinal's intendant. This year it had been a gunshot to the back. 

For the first time since Treville stopped being their Captain, Porthos actually feels relieved. Relieved that Treville is going to have their backs here in Paris. That he will be fighting the fight at the royal council's table, ensuring that the musketeers would not be wasted. 

Porthos is relieved that he's _alive_. 

Porthos' voice is heavy when he speaks again. Heavy with childhood memories of a court of filth. Heavy with the proof of the contempt that allowed Paris to forget his mother, and that would make her forget him if he ever misstepped.

He can barely lift his tongue. 

Porthos croaks when he speaks: "Would you do it again?" 

Treville grimaces. "I don't think I have any friends left to break any oaths to."

This time, Porthos growls. "Would you do it again?"

He needs this one thing to be true. He needs to know why Treville's sheathed sword is against his shelf amongst his luggage. He needs to know why he took Treville here, to this place, when he has come here alone for so many years.

"If you could have Belgard back, same as he was before? Or de Foix?"

"No." There is a fresh sheen of wetness making Treville's eyes shine in the candlelight, but this time Porthos doesn't mind.

"Then you're no longer who you were." Porthos needs to believe this one thing.

He needs to believe he _never_ admired the boy who took his mother from their home. 

He has _always_ admired _this_ man, who had watched his recruit fight with the tricks taught to him by the Court of Miracles and the bloody infantry and _laughed_. The man who taught him to fight dirty with _style_. The man who gave a nobleman's name to a street rat and encouraged him to read. A man – above all – who bade goodbye to any oath but that to his men and his country. A man who doesn't let anything come between him and his duty – between him and what is right.

It is only now that Porthos realises that _anything_ truly means _anything_.

Even a friend.

"I hope I am," Treville says, interrupting Porthos' thoughts. "Thank you."

Porthos doesn't even know what Treville is thanking him for. Porthos isn't offering forgiveness. It's not he who killed that boy who killed his mother twenty-five years ago.

"I wish I could offer you a birthday," Treville says, and Porthos frowns as he watches him sit back and pull something out of the folds of his cloak.

"But I can offer you this."

It's an envelope carrying the red seal signalling that its contents, whatever they are, are very official.

"It took me a while, but I found the priest who married Belgard and your mother. He swears that he remembers them and agreed to have his statement signed and sealed by a notary."

"Why?" Porthos asks, not wanting to guess why the priest remembers _his_ parents out of all the couples he must he have married. "That marriage brought my mother only misery."

He much prefers that old sword amongst his luggage.

"Considering how you and Belgard parted, you might find this helpful one day in claiming your inheritance. Documentation of your birth would be of greater use, but if there is any, only Belgard knows what happened to it, and I failed to find a midwife if he hired any. However, my guess is that being dragged back into the light over charges of bigamy is the last thing he wants – or his daughter."

Porthos is silent for a long moment, swallows. He thinks of an empty manor house, dusty and grey, covered in spider-webs, and with barred cells in the stables.

"If he doesn't want me to have it, he can burn it. I won't fight him for a house he killed my mother to inherit."

Treville places his hand on top of the envelope, pushing it toward Porthos. "But your children might want to have it."

Porthos' eyes turn round.

_Children._

"D'Artagnan is gonna beat me to that," he says, but he gives the envelope the faintest brush with his fingertips. He knows there is less humour in his voice than he intended because he can feel himself ache. He hasn't even found a woman yet who would want to share this life with him and bear the questionable honour of being a soldier's wife.

Treville, greying, unmarried, childless, smiles. The envelope lies between them. The house that barred its doors to Porthos' mother might one day be a home to her grandchildren.

Porthos picks up the envelope and pries it open with the nail of his thumb before he can change his mind. As he unfolds the document inside it, his eyes are drawn to the loopy signatures and another red wax seal attesting the marriage of Marie-Cessette and Antoine de Belgard. 

His eyes meet Treville's. "Does Belgard know about this?"

Treville shakes his head. "Young noblemen promising their servants the world through a secret marriage happens more often than their parents would like to think. Any witnesses to these marriages are strangers to bride and groom, and the officiating priests rarely bother with documentation. They know what these marriages are, and their conscience weighs less heavy than their purse."

Treville leans closer. His fingers hover above Porthos' hand holding the letter. "You might be invalided out of the regiment one day. You'll be glad to have an estate then."

"The state the buildings are in—" And yet, he can't take his eyes off the paper. Hadn't his mother taught him to be mindful of the future as she had squeezed everything she could out of every coin they had earned. Having to raise him in the Court of Miracles instead of that old, dusty place had broken her heart.

And hadn't Porthos left the court at the first chance, leaving behind his only friends, to show her that he had listened?

"Sell it if it's too much work, and buy something smaller if you want." Treville snorts. "Do something with it that Belgard never would."

The thought is appealing, but only for a moment. "No," Porthos says. He presses Treville's hand as though the deal is already sealed and the mansion is his. "I'll take it, but whatever I do with it I won't do to spite him. It's gonna be something I wanna do for myself." And for _her_.

A smile steals itself onto Porthos face and it isn't all bitter. "She would have enjoyed knowing her grandchildren have what she couldn't."

Treville leans in closer. "You deserved more time with her."

" _She_ deserved more time," Porthos says as he hides his hands under the table. There is an altercation among the card players behind them and Porthos wants to shout at them to shut up, to have some respect. 

"He didn't think I'd remember face," he says when the noise has died down. "But I do." 

"Will you tell me about her?"

Porthos nods, because for a moment he is too overcome to speak.

"It was hard on her. Fending for the two of us. Decent folk don't like to give work to a woman from the Court of Miracles, and she wouldn't steal, or beg." Porthos doesn't like to imagine what she would have thought of her son becoming known as the best thief in the Court. She would have understood, he is sure, but she would have wept. "She gave me everything she could give up. I knew – you know." He pauses, trying to dislodge the shell stuck in his throat. "When you're a child, you still know. I knew my mother was sad." 

"The thing you didn't know was how to change that," Treville concludes when Porthos falters.

Porthos nods again. When he finally swallows the thing in his throats it tastes bitter.

"I wanted to believe there was a time when she wasn't sad. With my father. I thought if I found him, everything would make sense. I told myself for so long that he had loved her despite where she came from. That he wanted us, that he was searching for us."

"If Belgard had found you—"

"I know." What an absurd dream that had been. Only a child could believe in bonds of blood. 

He has to think of that silly blood oath again. It's terrifying, but Porthos can't shake the feeling that should have someone put the idea in the heads of three orphans from the Court of Miracles day-dreaming about a family of blood, they would have considered it a reasonable way of making one. 

How did that saying go, of 'children and fools'? They think alike…?

"If he hadn't needed me to intimidate Levesque he would have thrown me out when I found him."

Treville says nothing and Porthos wonders whether he, at one point, hadn't hoped for exactly that, Belgard telling Porthos nothing. It was low to assume that of him, but Treville hadn't exactly behaved with honour before he finally admitted the truth.

"Belgard said he loved her, that he'd have protected her if he had known…" Porthos trails off, blinking rapidly. "I wanted to believe him." 

"It's a good wish," Treville says. "It is what she deserved." 

Porthos has to look up, because he can't remember ever having heard Treville speak so softly before.

Under Porthos' scrutiny Treville sinks further back into his seat, apologising. "I can't claim to have known her."

"My _father_ " – how wrong the word feels on Porthos' tongue – "never introduced his _wife_. That's how much he loved her."

The answer is written clear on Treville's face. "No."

He doesn't need to say anything else. Porthos can already feel the tears well up.

"I had everything I needed when I grew up. I had my mother. I didn't need anyone else."

"She sounds like a great woman."

"She was. The best."

"I would be grateful if you could tell me more about her."

Porthos opens his mouth – and hesitates. It is a tall request, kindly meant but impossibly hard to fulfil. He loves his mother, still does, always will. But he rarely speaks of her. Since he lost her, she has been his treasure, locked safely in his heart. And Porthos' heart is a vast place, so where would he even begin?

Porthos was young when his mother died. A five-year-old is hardly the skilled observer or deep thinker Marie-Cessette deserved to have as her storyteller. 

He was so young that he remembers her face and the colour of her dress and the way their humble abode would smell when she cooked, but his memories of the things she used to do and say day to day have faded. And they fade further the harder Porthos tries to remember them. Trying to put those memories into words feels like painting a picture with sand – and Porthos has never thought of himself as a particularly talented painter.

She did what she could to protect her son from learning of her more profound sorrows and struggles, and now there is no one to remember them. 

"You said she told you stories."

"Yeah."

A tentative but excited smile begins to spread across Treville's face. "Tell me a story."

Porthos does. For a moment he is afraid that he has somehow forgotten all of them. But, bit by bit, one of his mother's stories comes back to him. With it, as the old soldier listens raptly, memories return to him of what he and his mother used to do on those evenings before she would tell him a story. These memories are fractured and washed out and pale like wet water-colours, but Porthos imagines he remembers lying in his mothers' arms, listening to the sounds of a thunderstorm; or telling her about a new thing he'd learned or a bird he'd seen, prompting details in her stories. Sometimes, she'd just have come home from looking for work. Porthos imagined her stories had been especially likely to feature witches on those nights. But her mood would inevitably lighten while she talked. 

Porthos makes sure to mention it all, because as he speaks, as Treville's prompts him to keep talking, each word seems to bring forth a new memory. Some are clearer than others— the way her hands moved when she talked; the way her mouth tightened when she listened. Small gestures and short scenes are what Porthos remembers bests. As he mentions asking his mother why birds fly – because they sing their sorrow away until they are light enough – Porthos remembers how she used to sing. It was too long ago for him to be able to compare her to the singers the Queen so loves, but it doesn't matter, because he remembers how happy hearing her sing made him.

There are a hundred stories that are brought to mind like this, by and by, and although there is no way Porthos can relate them all in one evening he speaks until he's hoarse and the stream of words runs dry, leaving his cheeks covered in tracks of salt. 

Across from his, in the half-shadow, the candle having almost been burned to a stub, Treville is returning his searching gaze out of clear blue eyes. The Minister's cheeks are dry but there's a sharpness in his eyes, and Porthos realises, satisfied, that Treville understands the importance of every word Porthos has shared. He likely failed to imagine even half the scenes Porthos tried to paint with his disorganised, jumbled words, but his solemn expression tells Porthos that he understands their importance to _Porthos_ , and that is all that matters.

They are quiet for a long while, but it is a companionable silence. Treville orders another drink for them because Porthos physically can't speak. He is too drained, and yet he feels full. Speaking of all these things, letting it all run out of him, has freed space for something else in him, something tranquil. 

He feels like he finally knows why he came back to this place and why he had to bring Treville. Not even the renewed arguments between the card players one table over disturb him anymore.

Porthos is still going to war tomorrow, but he knows there is a place he can return to. Even if the garrison is empty. Even if this tavern is consumed by the slum. 

When – not if – Porthos comes back, Treville will be there, and Constance, having saved him a place by their sides.

"I guess we should leave soon." Treville is calling Porthos' thoughts back to the present. But it's a gentle call, like being woken in the morning by a parent. "Can't have you ride to the front without any rest," he concludes. 

There is reason behind his words. It's pitch black outside by now. 

Feeling wistful, Porthos can't help but grin as he picks up his cup. "Let's drink up first."

Treville mirrors his expression. "I wasn't going to let this go to waste."

Even though the wine can hardly match anything he's used to drinking, Treville drinks up. But he sighs heavily as he puts his cup down.

"I imagine it will be quiet here with all of you gone."

It's the wording more than the sentiment that gives Porthos pause. Already he can feel the contentment he thought he had found run from him like blood from a wound. 

"Are you still concerned about Aramis?"

Porthos puts down his cup to stare into the remaining liquid swirling at its bottom. "Maybe."

There's no use denying it. Treville has found the one thorn that still pricks his side. All evening Porthos had wished he possessed Aramis' silver tongue; but more than that he wishes he had Aramis back by his side.

"Don't be—" Treville begins, but Porthos interrupts him.

"He doesn't want to come back."

"He had his reasons for leaving. If he would give up on them so soon, he should be ashamed for ever leaving."

"Could have told us that before we spent a day trying to find that monastery."

A sad smile tugs at Treville's lips as Porthos slouches forward, hunching over the table, hugging his cup.

When Porthos had left the Court of Miracles he had left behind more than a slum. He had left the only friends he had ever known at the time, and for what? Porthos had been a thief. The best thief at the Court, but still a thief; and his mother had detested thieves. And so he had left behind his only friends to find what he had believed was a 'brotherhood with honour'.

Porthos is off to war tomorrow, to fight – perhaps to die – and where is that brotherhood now?

It is Aramis' refusal to return when his brothers asked for his support that hurts far more than his leaving.

"Aramis is not the only one with a good reason not to want to fight. D'Artagnan's married, but it doesn't stop him." Porthos stops. The ball of lead is back in his throat and refuses to be swallowed no matter how he tries. "Aramis didn't even wait for him and Constance to get married."

It should have been all three of them there. Congratulating their young friends on their wedding and taking them safely to the nearest tavern to celebrate proper, like they were the only people on Earth.

But Aramis hat elected to retreat to a monastery instead.

A monastery. Aramis.

"Why a monastery?" he asks, and he can feel the anguish on his face. He doesn't need to hide it anymore. 

"Aramis made the choice he considered the best for him and the Dauphin, for now," Treville says, wearing a patient expression as he refills their cups. "I doubt we've seen the last of him."

Porthos sighs. He wants to believe that. Aramis may have refused to return with them to Paris, but Porthos still wants him back.

"Doesn't mean it's a good choice," he says. "If he wants to be away from the palace he could move out with us. Much Easier to protect Her Majesty and the Dauphin with a sword and musket than a monk's habit."

Treville leans across the table, a sympathetic look on his face. To his surprise, Porthos finds that now, at the evening's close, he is ready to accept Treville's comfort. This, too, he guesses, is why he brought him here.

"You want to save your friend from a terrible decision. But sometimes you can't."

Porthos snorts. Treville is one to talk about terrible decisions.

"Perhaps you're right, perhaps it wasn't the right choice," Treville says and Porthos wonders why things can't ever be as clear-cut as he wants them to be. 

"Perhaps Aramis needs time to see that, to realise what he needs to do. But everything you've told me tonight—" Treville pauses as he leans closer. "Everything you've told me makes me believe that, no matter what Aramis decides, _you_ are going to make the right decision, when he comes back."

Porthos furrows his brows. "How do you mean?"

"You are not going to make my mistakes. You are not going to let a friend get away with doing harm because they are your friend." Treville pauses and there here is something earnest in Treville's clear, blue eyes as the Minister seeks Porthos' gaze – something so vulnerable that Porthos can hardly stand to see it in the eyes of this old warrior, this veteran of a hundred campaigns. He looks away. 

"You are a much better musketeer than I could ever have hoped," Treville concludes and Porthos finds himself swallowing heavily. 

He shouldn't have brought it up. Shouldn't have said anything. Things were so much easier when he had just been angry, when he had been haunted by nothing more complex than his own childhood. But now he is thinking about Aramis spending the rest of his days in a dusty mansion bought with the bones of a dead woman, and he's wondering who the hell is going to inherit the lands and title Treville's father bought for his childless son so long ago. And to top it all off, the ruckus at the card players' table just won't die down, when all Porthos needs is another moment to think and to breathe.

Someone is shouting now, probably accusing one of his companions of foul play. It's hard to tell, as the man's agitation slurs his speech.

All Porthos knows is that this is not how he had intended to end the evening of his last night of peace. He is going to war tomorrow, but the world just won't let him stop and rest. It's too full of life.

"We should—"

The jug flying past his head misses Porthos by inches. 

The altercation at the table next to them has moved beyond words now. Two of the players have risen from the table, thrown down their cards, and drawn their daggers instead. The rest of the table – half a dozen other young men, foolish and inebriated – follow suit only moments later.

Porthos can see the waitress heading towards them. She didn't even take the time to put down the drinks she's carrying, and she's spilling liquid on her customers left and right as she hurries towards the card table, no doubt hoping to defuse the situation that the musketeer fears, is already lost.

"Looks like someone's been cheating," Treville mutters, barely audible over the loud arguing.

The entire room is watching as the waitress draws up next to the shouting men. Porthos' hand has flown underneath his cloak, encircling the grip of his sword, before she comes to a stop.

But the woman doesn't even try to calm the men down. She isn't carrying all these drinks by mistake, and before Porthos can even blink she has thrown the alcohol into the arguing men's faces. 

"Sit down!" she yells, and Porthos gets to his feet. 

For only a handful of men have been shocked out of their aggression by their sudden showers. One of them, not even taking the time to wipe the alcohol out of his eyes lunges at his opposite. 

There is a shout, a spray of blood, and then all hell breaks loose. 

Within moments Porthos has kicked back his chair and jumped onto the original attacker's back, trying to wrest away his dagger with one hand, and push the waitress to safety with the other. But all that gets him is a knock on the back of his head from the waitress' tray, breaking his hold on the man's arm.

That's what you get in Paris for trying to be helpful. But Porthos is too much of a musketeer to let that stop him. He reinforces his grip on the man's wrist, using both hands this time. Forcing the man's thumb back until he releases the grip on his dagger and Porthos can safely throw the weapon away.

No need to risk a man's life over a game of cards. Not on the eve of war. Not in this quartier. Paris is going to need all her citizens.

Porthos has barely straightened before another man barrels straight into him – without a dagger, thankfully, but the man's momentum is enough to upset his balance, and Porthos crashes to the floor, hitting his head as he takes the nearest chair with him.

The stars stop dancing in front of Porthos' eyes just in time for him to see his assailant catch a fine right hook on his chin from Treville. The man goes down without a sound and Treville stops to grin at Porthos just long enough to catch someone's fist with his face. 

As Porthos gets back on his feet, he tries not to think about how he got the King's Minister for War involved in a tavern brawl. This is not the time. Especially as two more of the young card players are charging at him. They end up with their necks under his arms in a double-headlock. 

What a night.

The waitress is shouting at him again, pointing at the front doors through which a squad of Red Guards comes streaming. Their first warning shot has no effect on the wild crowd. The second one never goes off, because someone has engaged the respective guard in a fist-fight. 

Only once reinforcements arrive does the brawl end, and quickly. Porthos is craning his head, trying to catch sight of Treville in the mix, but one of the red-clad soldiers is already tugging at his arm. Porthos turns to him with the deepest growl he can muster. If he is to spend his last night of peace in a holding cell of the Red Guard he is going to be upset.

"It is my duty to—"

"Let that man go!"

Puzzled, the Red Guard turns towards Treville who has appeared at their side seemingly out of nowhere. It takes the soldier a moment to recognise him – Treville's bloody nose probably has something to do with that – but when he does, the soldier's mouth drops open.

"Minister Treville!" 

In the wake of Rochefort's demise, the Red Guards have been reduced to a mere city watch without a patron, while Treville is once again the King's favourite person in the world.

"There is no need to arrest anyone tonight," Treville says as he casually wipes the blood from his face with a handkerchief. "Just see to it that everyone here goes home peacefully, and that the owner of this tavern has a quiet rest of the night."

The guard remains motionless for a while, clearly weighing the possible consequences for violating protocol like this against the consequences of pissing off the Minister for War before releasing Porthos, clearly having come to a conclusion in the Minister's favour.

"We should go," Treville says as the Red Guard trundles off to bother somewhere else. 

Porthos agrees, gladly following Treville outside as he sees the waitress glaring at him again. 

They stand in the light of the lantern outside the tavern for a bit, watching the Red Guards escort more of the troublemakers outside. They're all up and walking. No one was seriously injured. No one died. 

"If you have any doubts left about whether or not you earned your position in the musketeers, just ask anyone."

"Ask Constance, ask the Queen. Ask anyone whose life you saved. In a couple of days, you could even ask anyone here." He nods towards the entrance of the tavern where the waitress and the tavern owner are watching the Red Guards take care of their rowdier customers.

"You didn't choose this profession for the praise."

"I like praise and glory." But Porthos is smiling as he talks and Treville smiles back, briefly, before turning more serious again.

"Porthos…" He looks into the night, absent-mindedly wiping at the blood seeping into his moustache. Seeing him bleed is more disturbing than Porthos would have thought. And to think, that earlier this evening Porthos believed it would have been satisfying.

Porthos turns his gaze back on the Red Guards and hopes the night hides his shame.

"I considered making you captain at first, but it is a very political position."

"A position to which Athos is much better suited, because _he_ was actually raised by his noble father." Porthos grunts, but it's only half in self-deprecation. The other half of him is shocked. 

_Captain._

Treville, who was not raised by a nobleman, turns to look Porthos in the eye. "Athos has the tongue to defend himself from any court gossip and the swordsmanship to win any resulting duel."

Porthos makes a contemplative noise and leans back against the tavern wall. _Hard to argue with that_.

"There are other paths for you to rise," Treville says and his mouth twists into an odd smile. "Ones that don't make you end up as a minister on the King's council instead of a marshal."

"A marshal," Porthos repeats, awestruck. 

It's true. When Porthos had chosen to become a soldier he hadn't daydreamed about becoming a politician. But a marshal – yes. That would be something. 

Is that what Treville would have preferred? Porthos recalls how oddly wistful Treville had sounded when they had discussed his new position as Minister for War. It should be strange that a man would be so desolate about not being asked to give his life in brutal battle, but this war with Spain has been brewing for decades. Treville had probably been planning for this war since he was a boy, and he most certainly hadn't planned to fight it behind a desk, stuck in a council chamber with stuffy magistrates while his men spilled their blood at the front.

In thirty years of fighting Treville had more than earned his retirement, but that evidentially wasn't what he wanted. That wasn't the kind of man Treville had become when he had stopped being the boy Belgard had once known. 

The man Treville was now, the man Porthos had come to know over all these years couldn't leave anyone behind and be happy, even when he had the best reasons in the world. 

And that man was looking at Porthos now, like a parent looking to see his son take the path that is closed to his parents – one that will lead him to a happier life than that of his father. 

Porthos swallows. "You're not my father," he says, and for the briefest of moments he can see Treville's face fall. 

_You poor fool_. 

"You're nothing like my father," Porthos continues. "I wouldn't have liked spending my last evening of peace with _Belgard_." There was no inheritance so big as to even tempt to him to spend another evening with a father who threatened to kill his wife and child for a name, money, and an old house.

Understanding dawns on Treville's face – that Porthos has a very good reason not to be looking for a father.

"You're not my father," Porthos repeats, and he can't help the sheepish smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. "You're not – you're no longer my captain. But I believe you're my friend. Because I'm yours."

A wide smile spreads across Treville's face and even though it's partially obscured by the handkerchief he holds to his still-bleeding nose it's the best sight Porthos has seen all evening.

"I'm honoured," Treville says. He offers his hand and Porthos takes it. 

The feeling of contentment has returned. 

"The council is going to be surprised when they see me tomorrow."

Porthos smirks. "Tell them they should see what the other guy looks like if they wanna know what you'll do to them if they don't behave."

"They're the King's advisors!" Treville protests, but Porthos can hear the mirth in his voice. 

They head back in the direction of the palace after that, back into Paris' better quarters. But Porthos is glad he came here. Glad, that this is the way he chose to spend his last night of peace. He couldn't be moving out tomorrow with so much left unsaid.

If Porthos has to go to war tomorrow, he will do so with peace in his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I was rather dissatisfied not just with how abruptly Porthos' s2 storyline ended, but with how the show ended without Porthos and Treville having at least one conversation about Marie-Cessette. 
> 
> So here's my attempt to cope with those facts. 
> 
> Many thanks to rhesascoffee for checking this fic for mistakes and inconsistencies. 
> 
> The title is of course taken from the Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young song "Teach Your Children Well".


End file.
